


love me tender, love me fierce

by joanofarcstan



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, Dom/sub, Fluff and Smut, Kneeling, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rope Bondage, oh my god why is typing the tags way more embarrassing than WRITING this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28615998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joanofarcstan/pseuds/joanofarcstan
Summary: 'I have you.''I know.''Trust me.''I do.'These are momentous words. Of course Finrod trusts Caranthir, has trusted him since the beginning, but these two pairs of question and answer—I have you / I know; trust me / I do—have become a sort of ritual between them, a sign for Finrod that he can relinquish control, that he can let go; a sign for Caranthir that Finrod is gifting him with these blissful hours where he yields to Caranthir’s will, bends to his desire.—‘Please,’ Finrod cries, and his voice cracks so badly that Caranthir lays a gentle, undemanding kiss upon his hip bone.Easy, Caranthir's lips whisper silently. ‘You promised not to be cruel—’‘I promised no such thing.’ Caranthir shakes his head, thrusts against that spot again—and again, and again—just to watch Finrod fall apart beneath him. ‘I said I would cherish you, and there is room enough for cruelty in that.’
Relationships: Caranthir | Morifinwë/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Comments: 11
Kudos: 26





	love me tender, love me fierce

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. I said on Tumblr that I'd post this today if I still had enough hubris. As it turns out, I do! This is a shameless PWP I wrote instead of studying free will and determinism like I'm supposed to be doing.  
> 1\. I edited this (partially) while listening to Tchaikovsky's violin concerto. If there is anything that Romantic music has taught me, it is that it will give you far too many feelings about whatever you're thinking of at the moment.

'Shh,' Caranthir murmurs when Finrod starts at his touch, gently stroking his golden hair. 'I have you, beautiful.'

Finrod sighs at that word, _beautiful_. And it is the truth. Caranthir is not one to throw around meaningless epithets and compliments, something Maedhros has long lamented in complaining of his lack of diplomatic talent; but with one so graceful, so pliant as Finrod, who kneels upon a cushion, arms folded behind his back and restrained there, intricate patterns of rope adorning his torso, hugging his hips, weaving around his legs, Caranthir cannot help but praise.

When Finrod's bound hands tighten on his own forearms, Caranthir repeats, softly, 'I have you.'

Finrod looks up towards him then, searching, though he cannot see Caranthir through the blindfold. 'I know.'

Bending to press a kiss to Finrod's forehead, Caranthir runs a finger along the strip of leather that encircles his slender throat, smiling a little when he hears his breath catch, and commands, softly-gently- _lovingly_ , 'Trust me.’

And Finrod shudders, bows his head, kisses Caranthir’s wrist. Though he is quiet, so quiet, he is no less sincere when he whispers, ‘I do.’

These are momentous words. Of course Finrod trusts Caranthir, has trusted him since the beginning, but these two pairs of question and answer— _I have you_ / _I know_ ; _trust me_ / _I do_ —have become a sort of ritual between them, a sign for Finrod that he can relinquish control, that he can let go; a sign for Caranthir that Finrod is gifting him with these blissful hours where he yields to Caranthir’s will, bends to his desire.

Though Caranthir has little love for words and no talent for them—certainly none to rival his silver-tongued, golden-voiced Ingo, kneeling at his feet—, he knows that they have power: power to comfort, power to subdue, just like the collar resting against Finrod’s pulse does. And as his eyes return to rest on that collar, half-obscured by the fall of Finrod’s loose hair, Caranthir is equal parts awed and humbled by Finrod’s show of trust in him.

‘Thank you,’ he says, for this is a privilege, a _gift_ , and he knows not quite how or why Finrod deemed him to be worthy of it, but worthy he is determined to be. Now he looks back to the accounts on his desk, but even as he begins calculating with a pen in one hand, he continues to run the fingers of his free hand through Finrod’s hair, soothing him.

Later, when the tension has flowed from Finrod’s body, when Caranthir has finished setting these accounts, he will speak soft words of praise and kiss Finrod’s forehead as he undoes the rope-knots; and then he will take Finrod to bed and have him, slowly, gently, until Finrod cries out in pleasure and clings to him in need. But until then, until Finrod is ready, he will continue his loving touches and let his Ingo drift, and breathe, and find peace.

—

Caranthir is straightforward. And though _straightforward_ and _honest_ sometimes mean different things, as do _honest_ and _honourable_ , he is honest now, too. (All these things—honest, gentle, patient, loving—he is with Finrod alone.) ‘May I draw you?’

Finrod first asks why, then when Caranthir explains that he wants to preserve Finrod’s beauty on paper (at least what he can capture of it), laughs softly and teases him for being a romantic. But he gives his permission, so the next time Finrod sinks to his knees upon the floor and submits to Caranthir’s silken rope and artful knots, instead of reading a book or catching up on his correspondence, Caranthir takes out his notebook and begins to sketch. He has not Curufin’s talent for precision, nor Ambarussa’s for preserving a living moment, nor Maglor’s for art; but he does his best to capture the graceful arch of Finrod’s throat, the understated strength of his slender body, the gentle curve of his lips and jaw; and when Caranthir scrutinizes the finished product, he is satisfied.

Finrod kneels in the centre of the page, inviting in the fall of his hair over his collarbones, the hinted-at strength in his bound arms, the silvery scars that mark him as a warrior, his cock half-erect. Midnight-blue rope accents the creamy smoothness of his skin, and were he to open his eyes, they would match the cord, the blue of the hour where the stars appear, though the stars are surely in Caranthir’s eyes this time. This is strength unchained, thinks Caranthir with no small sense of awe, this embrace of submission, knowing that trust is not weakness.

He has heard artists say before that they have drawn their models too well, finer than they are, but he has not done so. This Finrod cannot do justice to the true Finrod, a sculpture that Caranthir now lets his eyes roam hungrily over as he sets the paper aside, but this sketch will be a souvenir for Caranthir to take with him when he inevitably must leave, a memory to keep his heart (and his arousal) warm when he is a thousand leagues from his Ingo.

Crossing the distance between them to stand before Finrod, Caranthir tilts Finrod’s fair face up with a hand under his chin, brushing a thumb over those soft lips and smiling when Finrod shivers. ‘Such a pretty mouth,’ Caranthir murmurs, and this is really his way of asking permission.

(Codes within games; his family would be proud of him. But that does not matter; all that matters is that Finrod understands him.)

And Finrod meets his eyes and does understand, and grants his permission freely, wantonly, taking Caranthir’s thumb into his mouth and whimpering when Caranthir presses down on his tongue. His eyes are dark and pleading, and Caranthir smiles. With gentle cruelty, he says, ‘I do not believe you could bear it if I left you without allowing you to take my cock into your lovely body tonight.’

Finrod whimpers around his finger again, working his tongue over it like he would with a cock. When Caranthir looks down, he sees Finrod is fully hard; when he returns to meet Finrod’s helpless gaze once more, full of dark promise, Finrod swallows convulsively and shudders.

‘So sensitive,’ Caranthir teases, undoing his breeches one-handed. Taking himself in hand, he pays special attention to the way Finrod’s eyes track the movement of his hand, the way he swallows again and sucks Caranthir’s thumb harder. Then, in one swift movement, Caranthir pulls his hand away and sheaths himself in the tight, wet heat of Finrod’s waiting mouth.

Finrod’s eyes fall shut in bliss, long eyelashes resting against his cheekbones. It is this intersection of vulnerability and need that makes the warmth of tenderness surge within Caranthir, that makes him stroke Finrod’s golden hair and whisper soft praises to him, buried to the hilt in his pretty throat.

‘You know how to stop me,’ Caranthir reassures him, breaking character for a moment, only to moan as Finrod swallows around him, and begins fucking Finrod’s mouth in earnest.

Yet it is not hard or fast or brutal that way, but in another: slowly, he rocks in and out, holding Finrod in place by his hair, relishing in the choked, pleading sounds he makes in the back of his throat, clear fluid gathering at the tip of his untouched cock. At last Caranthir’s hips stutter, his rhythm faltering, and he drives in all the way, holding Finrod there while he comes deep inside his throat. Finrod moans and swallows obediently, then, when Caranthir releases him, looks up with pleading eyes. It is a pretty picture he makes, Caranthir thinks, tracing the curve of Finrod’s red, spit-slick lips; all flushed cheeks and dark eyes and needy whines.

‘You did so well,’ he praises, kneeling to claim Finrod’s mouth with his own, tasting himself on Finrod’s tongue.

Hungrily, Finrod returns the kiss, whimpering when Caranthir bites down gently on his bottom lip. ‘Please,’ he whispers when Caranthir pulls away.

With a wicked grin, Caranthir reaches down to take Finrod’s leaking cock into his hand, stroking him fast and hard.

‘Ai— _Moryo_!’

Finrod’s back arches and his hips jerk, but Caranthir has other plans for him. Letting his breath ghost over Finrod’s ear, chuckling at his shiver, Caranthir offers him a choice: ‘Would you like to come like this, bound and begging, kneeling on the ground and rutting against my hand like a common whore’ —and here he stops to kiss Finrod again, fierce and hard and demanding— ‘or would you like me to take you, slowly and lovingly, to hold and cherish you in bed’ —and here he is tender and sincere, pressing his forehead to Finrod’s and letting their lips brush only momentarily— ‘as my partner and my beloved?’

Finrod shudders, screws his eyes shut, fighting to hold back from coming in Caranthir’s hand. When he opens his eyes again, his pupils are blown wide, and he begs, voice breaking, ‘ _Please_.’

Caranthir is not so cruel that he would punish Finrod for not choosing, not when he knows which one Finrod will inevitably choose; but he is cruel enough to tease, to watch Finrod writhe beneath his hand and struggle to hold back until tears fill his eyes. ‘Choose one,’ he warns, ‘lest I give you neither.’ Perhaps he is a cruel master, but Finrod is so beautiful, so breathtaking when he is mastered, made to bend and break as Caranthir wills it.

And tears do fill Finrod’s eyes at the threat, so desperate is he; and Caranthir takes pity on him and stops his strokes to let him find words. Finrod keens at the loss, but his eyes are grateful, and after a moment he whispers, hoarsely, ‘Please, my lord. Take me to bed; have me as you desire, for I am yours.’

He is entirely too silver-tongued for having just been a begging, shaking mess barely hanging onto the edge, but Caranthir decides that he can forgive that and claims his mouth in another kiss, softer and sweeter than before. Then he finds the key knots in the silken harness—he prides himself on this efficiency—and undoes them, letting the midnight-blue rope fall in loops to the ground around Finrod. Gingerly, Finrod brings his arms around to the front, and the finger-shaped bruises on the forearms make Caranthir smile and raise an eyebrow.

‘My,’ he says, and cannot stop himself from deadpanning, ‘those shall be interesting to explain.’ But he takes Finrod’s hand, encouraging him to stretch out his arm, and kisses the marks reverently. He knows he is being soft, for he looks back to find Finrod watching him with tender, trusting eyes; but roles and rules be damned, he is, perhaps, in love. He helps Finrod stand. ‘On your back.’ While Finrod moves to obey his order, Caranthir strips and turns away to retrieve the oil.

In bed, kneeling between Finrod’s spread legs, Caranthir takes his time working his lover open, pressing one, then two slick fingers inside him. Finrod tries to shove down on them, whimpering and tossing his head, but Caranthir holds him in place with a hand on his hip that is sure to leave bruises. He cannot let Finrod have all the fun in marking himself up.

Caranthir loses himself in the gentle rhythm of Finrod’s gasps and shudders and trembles, crooking his fingers just _so_ to hear Finrod cry out so beautifully and see a pearly drop of precome bead at the tip of his cock.

‘Moryo—please—’ And his cry breaks again and he clenches around Caranthir’s fingers, whimpering. But he makes no move to touch his cock, keeping his hands fisted in the sheets until his knuckles turn white.

Finrod is beautiful like this: denied release, his cock hard and dripping onto his own stomach, his hands twisting in the sheets, sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, Caranthir thinks, and dips down to suck a mark into the soft, sensitive inside of Finrod’s thigh. Finrod moans again, throwing his head back so that waves of gold fan out around him, and Caranthir smiles, repeats the process on the other thigh. He adds another finger inside Finrod, watches him arch and tremble; then he presses them _hard_ against that place inside that will break Finrod, and admires his handiwork.

Caranthir has heard it told that he has little appreciation for beauty, but as he watches Finrod writhe and weep and beg with desperate eyes, he thinks that any other beauty must pale to insignificance next to Finrod.

‘ _Please_ ,’ Finrod cries, and his voice cracks so badly that Caranthir lays a gentle, undemanding kiss upon his hip bone. _Easy_ , Caranthir's lips whisper silently. ‘You promised not to be cruel—’

‘I promised no such thing.’ Caranthir shakes his head, thrusts against that spot again—and again, and again—just to watch Finrod fall apart beneath him. ‘I said I would _cherish_ you, and there is room enough for cruelty in that.’ He stops just before Finrod can reach his peak, and even as Finrod's body shudders around Caranthir's fingers and he bites his lip bloody, Caranthir brushes the tears from his cheeks. Then he touches Finrod's mouth, gently prying the lower lip free from Finrod's teeth, and kisses him. He tastes blood. 'I don't want to see you hurting yourself,' he breathes after Finrod's lip has been tongued clean, but allows Finrod to claim another kiss from him. He has done so well, after all, and deserves a reward.

'Easy,' Caranthir murmurs as he withdraws his fingers, and swallows Finrod's distressed whimper with another kiss, groping blindly for the bottle of oil. Perhaps he is being soft-hearted, but he has no reprimand on his tongue when Finrod's hips jerk, rutting helplessly against his body. 'Shh, you've done so well. Just a minute—'

'Please, Moryo—I can't take it—just fuck me already!'

At last, Caranthir locates the oil. 'Shh. I have you.' These words make Finrod take a long, shuddering breath and nod, throwing an arm over his eyes. Quickly, Caranthir pours some oil into his palm and tosses the phial aside, slicking himself, and, raising Finrod's leg over his shoulder, slides into him in one smooth thrust that makes Finrod cry out brokenly, relieved and needy at the same time. Caranthir forces himself to rest there a moment, stroking Finrod's hair, laying soft kisses on his jaw, his collarbone, the pulse of his exposed throat; savours the tender, exquisite press of his body.

Finrod looks up at him, so trusting, so heart-breakingly vulnerable that Caranthir brings their foreheads to touch, holds him close, cradles him in his arms as he begins to move, drawing all the way out and sliding back in again. Finrod’s body moulds to his, arching into Caranthir's embrace, and he gives a trembling sigh that trails off into something near a sob as he is claimed and cherished, conquered and loved. Caranthir knows his body, knows all the tricks to master Finrod: to make him beg for release, to make his cries break, to make him cling to Caranthir and weep into the crook of his neck; and Caranthir uses that knowledge now, adjusting his angle to strike that sweet spot on every thrust, biting down at the juncture of shoulder and neck, then at Finrod’s pulse, marking his lovely, slender throat; and Finrod’s body convulses as he lets out a desperate sob, his breath hitching, and he simply _takes_ what Caranthir gives to him.

He _breaks_ , and it is the finest of beauty that Caranthir has ever seen.

‘Please—’ Finrod’s plea shatters again with a well-placed thrust, and he begs, ‘I’m— _close_ , Moryo’ —his fingers scrabble at Caranthir’s shoulders as Caranthir rests a hand over his throat, mercilessly, _tenderly_ pleasuring him— ‘ _please_ , I—I _need_ —’

‘I know.’ Caranthir reaches down with the same hand to fist Finrod’s weeping cock. Ruthless, he pounds into Finrod faster, harder, bites down hard on Finrod’s collarbone, and smiles against his skin. ‘ _Come for me_.’

And Finrod comes with a broken wail, trembling and clinging to Caranthir, tears wetting his shoulder. Caranthir fucks him through it until the tightening of Finrod’s body around his cock makes him groan and bury himself to the hilt, and he comes deep inside Finrod’s tight heat. Shivering, Finrod whimpers, his cock giving a last weak twitch, and hides his face in Caranthir’s shoulder. Caranthir rolls them over so they are facing each other on their sides, and Finrod curls into his embrace, pressing trembling kisses to his collarbone.

They will have to clean up sometime, before everything becomes sticky and uncomfortable, but for now Caranthir is content to stroke Finrod’s golden hair and kiss the crown of his head and praise him, cradling him tenderly like the treasured, beloved lover he is.

**Author's Note:**

> 2\. I wonder how Caranthir would do at math tutoring. Can he pick up some of my hours for me?  
> 3\. For some reason, my brain decided that 'sweet' is spelled with a p. Where the p goes, I don't know, and stop looking at me like that and get your mind out of the gutter.  
> 4\. Leave a comment and I'll send you cookies! You can also find me on tumblr @[fingolfino](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/fingolfino).


End file.
